Adrian's POV
The dream returned again.
Since the fight, no dream had come. Though I knew that wasn't really a fight—more like a brutal release of tension, an unraveling of rage and confusion—but the way it unfolded, it should still be classified as one. My blood had roared through my veins, fists swinging, teeth bared. And after that night, silence. No memories. No nightmares. No ghosts. Just blankness. Until now.
And now that the dream came, it was clearer than it had ever been.
I stood at the edge of a battlefield, the scent of blood mingling with the cold, metallic air, thick and iron-heavy in my lungs. Bodies littered the ground like fallen leaves, twisted in agony, their faces burned into my memory. Familiar. Brothers. Comrades. Names I couldn't recall but whose deaths I somehow carried like a burden in my bones. The sun was dying behind a veil of smoke and dusk, casting the sky in hues of ash and fire.
And there—among the fallen—one figure remained upright.
